


Eat the Terror, Lick the Spark

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, First Kiss, M/M, Magic has a Price, Magical Death, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic always requires a price, and Stiles made peace with that fact long ago. </p>
<p>Derek hasn’t.</p>
<p>[Please heed the warnings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat the Terror, Lick the Spark

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> Seriously, I'm sorry. He's my favorite character too. But once I got this idea in my head, it wouldn't let me go. I've been trying to avoid writing it for ages now, but this weekend it forced itself out and onto the paper.
> 
> The title of the story comes from the song "Bloodbeat" by Patrick Wolf and off the Album _Lycanthropy_. Doesn't get much more apropos than that, I'm thinking.
> 
> As always, I don't own either the characters or the world of Teen Wolf. I'm just writing here.

It isn’t supposed to happen like this.

Stiles is standing there, hands out, doing whatever it is that he does. Derek trusts that Stiles has their back somehow, and in turn the wolves protect him. There are growls, howls, furious snarls. The battle is pitched, tight and dangerous. 

Derek sees one of the betas from the invading pack dart around Scott, aiming for Stiles. Derek leaps through the air, landing on the wolf’s back, rolling it over and listening to the crack. It howls and Derek rips out its throat. He gave orders not to kill tonight, but these wolves are feral, they give no quarter and the pack does what they need in order to survive. They will need to live with the consequences when it is done.

He hears a shout, wordless but the intention is clear. Footsteps racing, someone pouncing. He can’t turn in time, feels the hot breath about to strike him when it is yanked away, thrown invisibly backwards into a tree. Derek gets his feet under him and is ready to pounce the fallen wolf when he sees it happen, out of the corner of his eye.

Stiles crumples to the ground.

Derek shifts direction, bounding to the top of the hill. It is a perfect vantage point for Stiles to see everyone, but it left him weak. Exposed. Derek crouches over Stiles, growling at anyone who approaches until the battle is done.

He noses Stiles’s throat, tasting sweat and cold chill. Derek whines his displeasure.

“Let me see him.” Someone pulls at his shoulder, but Derek refuses to move, the wolf still holding his intellect at bay. Stiles is _his_ and he needs to protect him.

“Derek, you have to let Isaac in.” Scott this time, yanking hard on Derek and toppling him backwards. “You can’t help Stiles, and he can.”

“What’s wrong with him?” The words feel thick in his throat. Derek stares at Scott, trying to read the pity in his expression as anything that could be good. “You know what’s wrong with him. What hasn’t he told us?”

“It’s not mine to tell.”

“He’s alive.” Isaac wedges one arm under Stiles’s shoulders. “Someone help me carry him. His pulse is thready and weak, and I think he’s dangerously dehydrated. We need to get him to the hospital right away.”

“I’ll get his dad.”

Derek hears the resignation in Scott’s voice and realizes that whatever is, the sheriff knows the truth as well. It makes him growl to be left in the dark, and he pushes Isaac aside. 

“I’ve got him,” Derek says, and he lifts Stiles easily, cradling him close. “You get the door to the car.”

They lay him across the back seat of the Camaro, and Derek drives. He can’t rush to the hospital and stay in the back seat with Stiles, so he lets Isaac take care of him for now. But as soon as they arrive, Derek abandons the car, leaving Isaac with the keys, as he carries Stiles inside and bellows for help.

#

The soft beep of the machines is maddening to werewolf ears. Derek wants to lean forward, press his palms against his ears and shut it all out. The beep, the drip-drip-drip of the three IV bags, the intercom conversations that are barely muffled by the glass and the closed door. He tries to tune them all out, to focus on the even softer rasp of Stiles’s breath, in and out, slow and steady. 

The sheriff has already been and gone, staying the night while Stiles slept and Derek refused to leave the room. Derek felt the light brush of a touch on his head at one point in the night, a whispered, “Get some sleep, son, I’ve got this,” and he trusted the sheriff enough that he slept, for just a short while.

But Derek is alone now. Scott is leading his pack, hunting the remains of the rogue pack and the rumored _creature_ they brought with them. Only Derek remains at Stiles’s side, waiting for some sign of more life than a wheezing breath.

“Why’re you here?” The words are rough, but they are definitely Stiles.

Derek glares at him. “Waiting for you to wake up. What kind of idiot doesn’t eat or drink anything for days when we’re under attack?” They have the bloodwork back, and Derek growled until the doctor let him see the charts. Stiles was as dehydrated as someone who had been abandoned in the desert for days. His sugar levels were minimal, his electrolytes badly out of balance. His iron levels were dangerously low. He would be in the hospital for days until he could build himself back to normal, and even then they doctor said he would be weak.

What Derek wants to know is _why_.

“I had pancakes, waffles, three eggs, two slices of bacon, four sausages, and a glass of milk this morning for breakfast.” Stiles rattles it off like he expected to be asked the question. He puts his hand down, trying to hitch himself up higher in the bed, then looks at the needle sticking out the back of it. “Ow.”

“Don’t mess with the IV.” Derek grabs the remote for the bed and raises the head. He takes the pillow from behind Stiles and pushes at it, roughly fluffing it before sticking it back where he got it from. “There. You’re sitting up. Now talk.”

“About what?” Stiles’s gaze flits around the room, pausing on the television, the machinery, the three dripping bags, his own gown-wrapped body. “Tell me you weren’t here when they put me in this gown. Because my skinny ass is stuck to the bed. I mean really. Couldn’t they have left a guy some dignity?”

“Stiles!” Derek growls, and Stiles jumps.

“What?”

Derek’s grin is all sharp teeth and frustration. “If you ate that much yesterday morning, why did you pass out like a starvation victim?”

“That was yesterday?” Stiles makes a face. “Ooh. Passed out all night. That’s not good. Dad’s got to be pissed off.”

“He’s been here. He’s worried.”

For a moment he expects another retort, but Stiles’s expression fades to serious. “Yeah. Well. He has reason to be.”

Derek stands by Stiles’s bed, looming. Waiting.

Stiles opens his mouth and sucks in a breath, lets it out without saying anything.

“Talk.”

Stiles looks at his hands, pale and weak, tangled together in his lip.

“See, the thing is, magic has a price,” he says quietly. “The more you use, the harder you use it, the more it eats you alive. So. There you go.”

“That’s it?” Derek sinks back into the chair. “This is because you over-extended yourself? Then stop.”

“Dude!” Stiles sits forward. “I saved your _life_ in that fight. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be here trying to intimidate me right now!”

“Your life is not worth mine.” Derek’s growl is a low rumble of thunder, but Stiles doesn’t back down.

“I think that’s my decision to make.” Stiles rolls onto his side, his back to Derek. “I’m tired now. Can you tell them I hate lime jello when you go? They always bring lime. I’d rather have the red stuff.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Derek slides down in the chair, uncomfortable but unwilling to step outside.

“Fine, then stay. But don’t touch my red jello.”

Derek can’t relax until he hears the breath go even and soft, rasping in and out in the quiet rhythm of sleep. He closes his eyes, determined to rest while he can. He doesn’t want to let Stiles out of his sight.

#

Stiles is released from the hospital after a week, under strict orders to rest at home and continue taking iron while he heals. When Derek climbs through his window that night, Stiles is hunched over his laptop.

“You don’t have any homework, so that had better be a game.”

“Dude, someday I am going to lock that window.” Stiles doesn’t even look up, and Derek can smell the exhaustion coming off of him. It reeks, bitter in his nose.

He doesn’t answer, instead looking over Stiles’s shoulder at the laptop screen. He knows it won’t be something as relaxing as a game. Derek sees a carefully blown up image of an ancient document in a language he can’t hope to read. Stiles presses his finger against the screen, tracing the image carefully before pausing to make a note on a pad of paper that sits nearby.

Magic.

Instinct tells Derek to growl, to pull the laptop up from the desk and throw it out the window.

Reason tells him that it would accomplish nothing, other than pissing off Stiles. It wouldn’t _change_ anything. Stiles would simply find another way to do it.

The key is to find a way to make Stiles _stop_.

Derek wrestles the wolf under control, burying it deep inside his chest until it aches from the pressure. He sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded tightly together. “I want you to stop doing magic.” His voice is low and gravely, thick and harsh. “I want you to stop now.”

“No.” Stiles flicks his fingers at Derek. “If that’s all you’re here for, then go away. I don’t have time for arguments right now. Lydia found out what that thing that the rogue pack brought in, and I’m trying to dig into the Bestiary and my mom’s old spell book and figure out how to stop it. If we don’t, it’s going to start collecting kindergarteners to make a meal out of them. At least, I think that’s what it says. It’s either kids or cats, I’m not sure which.”

“Stiles.” When there is no response, Derek lets the wolf rise up into a growl. “Stiles!”

The chair spins and Stiles faces him directly, meeting his gaze. “You summoned, oh alpha wolf?”

The words are light, but the expression is a shadow. Stiles’s skin is grey, his eyes sunk into dark pockets. His hair is thin. He smells like illness, like creeping death, and Derek wants to scoop him up and take him back to the hospital then and there. “You’re _dying_ ,” he snarls. “The magic is killing you.”

“Not yet.” Stiles twists the chair again, putting his back to Derek. “And if I don’t figure this out, that thing will kill way more people than just me. So either help, or get out.”

“We’ll find another way. Lydia—”

“Lydia doesn’t know the magic side of it. She can calculate the exact points of the star and circle we need to set, and she’ll make sure everything is mathematically perfect, but the fiddly metaphysical bits are over her head.” Stiles grins. “Yes, there _is_ a way that I’m smarter than Lydia Martin. Probably the _only_ way, but I’m going to hold onto it and be proud anyway.”

“Stiles.” Derek doesn’t raise his voice this time. He simply reaches out, past Stiles, and closes the lid of the laptop. He hears the whir of the hard drive as it winds down into hibernation, and Stiles echoes the sound with a sigh.

In the past, Stiles would bounce up and into Derek’s face, arguing with him. Now he carefully leverages himself to standing, holding onto the desk with one hand while he jabs his other finger into Derek’s chest.

“It’s a Stilinski _thing_ , you know,” Stiles tells him, punctuating each word with a poke. “It’s our _thing_ , protecting Hales. So get used to it. This is my choice, and this is how I’m part of the pack.”

“What do you mean a Stilinski thing?” Derek has a feeling he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Stiles drops back into his chair, refusing to look at Derek as he busies himself with getting the laptop started up again. “I was ten when my mother died,” he says slowly. “You were fifteen.”

There is nothing else left to say.

It’s the same year as Kate. As the fire. It’s the same year _something_ managed to twist every known chance to make sure that Laura and Derek weren’t home to die in that fire, and the same year that luck pushed them to New York and saved them from the Argents.

Derek swallows, knowing now that his luck must have been named Mrs. Stilinski.

“I’m sorry.” The words are hard to say, but honest.

“Don’t be. You see—I’m doing what I’m supposed to. Taking care of you.” Stiles glances up. “So like I’ve said several times, either get with the program or get out.”

Derek can’t change anything. He can’t change the past, and he can’t seem to change Stiles’s mind for the future. All he can do is sit quietly on the bed and watch as Stiles prepares to kill himself slowly.

#

It’s driving Stiles crazy that Derek won’t let him be. Derek can smell the frustration in the tang of his sweat, the way his gaze flicks around the room, seeking a space without Derek to settle on.

But Derek knows that if he weren’t there, Stiles might forget to eat. To drink. To take his medication and his vitamins, and to _live_ just a little longer. Stiles is immersed in the magic, running through the calculations with Lydia and casting and recasting the circle until it becomes rote and simple.

“I have to be able to just—” Stiles snaps his fingers, the sound loud in the room. “It has to be that easy to set it up. The thing isn’t going to wait around for us to do a whole song and dance. This circle will protect Allison, so she can use her crossbow after I’ve hit it with my mojo. And Lydia has a whole—”

“Stop.” It seems to be all Derek says to Stiles anymore. Three days of constant work, and three days of growing skinnier by the moment, Derek thinks. “Just… slow down. We need you to be standing upright to cast it.” He catches Stiles’s hands without thinking, gripping the wrists. “Eat.”

“Did you bring red jello?”

“Not funny.” Derek tries not to smile when Stiles grins at him. It is faded and exhausted, but it is still so perfectly _Stiles_. “Roast beef  & spinach sandwich. Gatorade. A side of vitamins and a Twinkie.”

“Twinkie?” Stiles pulls his hands back and looks around. “Where’d you get a Twinkie? I’m starting with dessert.” He unwraps it and twists a piece of cake free and pops it in his mouth, moaning softly. “Stop laughing, Lydia.” He kicks his foot out and she only laughs louder as she gets out of the way. “I don’t think I’ve had one of these since I was little. Then Hostess went out of business and I thought what’s the point of dying if you can’t have something that’s bad for you? But I couldn’t find one.”

He looks at Derek. “You found me a Twinkie. How’d you know I wanted a Twinkie?”

“You were talking about it yesterday,” Derek says. Lydia doesn’t bother mentioning that Stiles told her, and she told Derek. And Derek’s just fine with that secret staying between them. “Eat, Stiles. Take a break. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

“I’ll be fine after lunch.” Stiles talks around the mouthful of Twinkie, eyes rolling back in his head. “Bliss. Pure bliss. I am filling my body with sweetened chemicals and I do not care.”

Derek waits until Stiles swallows before he makes his move. He grabs his shoulders and pulls Stiles closer, covering his mouth in a kiss. He tastes sweet and _Stiles_ , tastes crumbs from his lips. He hears the surprised squeak, and waits for Stiles to pull away.

He doesn’t.

Derek lets him go slowly, steps back. Stiles’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open. “Don’t die,” Derek says quietly, and walks away.

He may be out of sight, but his wolf’s ears let him hear the conversation after he’s gone.

“What was that?” Stiles asks.

“You honestly had no idea, Stiles?” Lydia sounds amused. “Everyone else knew. It’s obvious to anyone who looks at the two of you.”

“No, I—I didn’t know. I…” Stiles’s voice trails off as Lydia laughs, and Derek is somehow pleased to have made him speechless.

Perhaps if Stiles stops protesting long enough, he’ll see what he’s doing and change course before it’s too late.

#

The window is open and waiting, even though Stiles’s room is dark when Derek arrives. He slips in and closes it behind himself, toes off his shoes and pads softly on bare feet to the bed.

“I wondered if you’d be coming by.” Stiles sounds weak, and Derek touches his face carefully, feeling the dryness of the skin there.

“You need to drink,” Derek says. “Did you eat dinner? Did you take your vitamins?”

“Steak, broccoli, and potatoes. And yes, right after you gave them to me earlier.” Stiles’s eyes are still bright and alive, crinkled at the edges with amusement. “It’s a good thing I’m wasting away, or you guys would be giving me a heart attack from the cholesterol in all that red meat.”

“You need the iron.” Derek doesn’t want to think about it as his last meal, which Stiles obviously already is. He can eat anything, do anything, because he thinks it doesn’t matter.

It _does_ matter. Derek will not let him die.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch me sleep all night? It’s very Edward of you, but also a bit creepy. Then again, you nailed creepy the first day I met you, so that’s not entirely out of character.” Stiles reaches out and Derek catches his hand, presses it between both of his, holding it against his thigh. Dry and slightly cold, the skin drawn in around the bones. Derek could break him. He could break him completely by accident, simply by wanting him.

“What do you want me to do?” Derek’s thumb slides against his skin, stroking lightly. Carefully. His hands seem so big, and Stiles so delicate, even though Derek knows the strength that is still in them.

Stiles hesitates. “Okay. So. I’m going entirely based on that kiss earlier, which came out of the blue as far as I’m concerned but trust me, right now I’d rather have that than being shoved into anything. Breakable bones are breakable after all.”

Derek’s touch stills. All he hears is the uncertainty and confusion. “I can go.”

“No.” Stiles twists his hand, holds on tightly to Derek. “Don’t. I just—you surprised me.” His tongue darts out, swiping across his lips, and Derek tracks the motion with his eyes. “You can do it again, if you want.” Stiles lifts the sheet. “Plenty of space under here for two, and hey, I bet you’ll help me stay warm for once. Can’t seem to ever get warm anymore.”

Derek looks at him, at what’s revealed by that small space between blankets and Stiles. His chest is thin, his sleep pants hung low on his hips. He starts to slide under where offered, pausing when Stiles stops him.

“You should um… _takeyourjeansoff_.” Stiles flushes and Derek can feel the warmth of it. “Because they’ll be uncomfortable. And might scratch me. Delicate skin.”

This is going to be torture, but Derek is here for Stiles, any way he can be. He doesn’t want to lose another moment, another chance. Derek unbuttons his jeans and slides them down, leaving only the boxers on. It isn’t the first time he’s undressed in front of Stiles, but it is definitely the first time they will be lying together on the same bed while half dressed. A hand touches his shirt, and Derek obliges, lifting it over his head and dropping it on top of his discarded jeans. 

As soon as he slides beneath the sheets, Stiles slides a hand against his chest, exploring. “Damn,” Stiles whispers.

“C’mere.” Derek draws him in, hands careful over his body. Stiles shivers as he snuggles close, movements languid and slow. A tilt of his chin, and Derek can taste Stiles, teasing his mouth. He doesn’t want to give in to his urgency, not tonight. He just wants to roll in Stiles’s scent, taking it onto his body. Reveling in it, and never letting go.

In the end, Stiles sleeps and Derek aches, hard and wanting but unwilling to damage this breakable human. He closes his eyes and holds Stiles, making sure he cannot slip away while Derek sleeps.

#

He wakes when Stiles shifts and stretches in the morning. Derek can smell coffee and burning toast, can hear soft footsteps moving around downstairs.

“Damn,” Stiles whispers. “Dad’s up. I need to go shower before he comes up looking for me.”

There are unsaid words, most of which translate to _please don’t let my dad catch you half naked in my bed_. Derek has a feeling the sheriff wouldn’t be surprised. There had been significant _looks_ in the hospital, and as Lydia says, everyone else seems to have suspected for a long time. His touch lingers as long as it can before Stiles gets up, moving with body aching slowness until he stretches the kinks out.

He pads out of the room on bare feet, and Derek breathes deep to wake himself up. It doesn’t take long to dress and leave the same way he came in, landing lightly on the grass below the window and loping back to his own home.

He has time to eat and shower and change before the pack starts to arrive.

“Stiles figured it out,” Lydia tells them. She has a neatly made PowerPoint presentation which she projects on Derek’s television so everyone can follow along. The points of the battle are calculated perfectly, each one with a set of contingency and alternative plans. Each member of the pack is color coded, and even Lydia herself plans to be there, safe within the circle, a gun in hand.

The keys to the entire plan are Stiles and Allison.

Scott protests. “You two can’t just stand there in the open! Anyone could pick you off.”

“That’s what the circle’s for,” Stiles tries to explain, but Lydia jumps in.

“The calculations are specific.” She lays a hand over Scott’s, pulling it back from where he reaches for Stiles. The cursor moves on the screen. “Anyone trying to use a distance weapon from here, here, or here will find their line of sight to be more than fifty percent occluded. We are fighting against a rogue pack of wolves, not sharpshooters, so I highly doubt they will bank the shot in order to increase their targeting capability. The biggest risk is that a wolf might physically get to the circle itself and try to destroy it, breaking their protections. And that is where you come in.”

She jabs her fingers at the screen. “Our wolves will hold the line here. While they do outnumber us, we have Allison and Stiles and I am not entirely a terrible shooter. Not to mention that Derek is in a horrible mood so I’m quite certain he counts for two alphas at the moment.”

Derek growls warningly, but she only offers him a sad smile. “We need your strength,” she says before looking away.

“It’s a solid plan.” Stiles is firm on that. “And it’s not changing. We have muscle, we have ranged weapons, and we have intelligence. And most importantly, we know that thing’s weakness so we can take it out. All we need is for you guys to protect me and Allison long enough for us to pull it off.” He raises his hands, spreading them as if to gather in opinions. “Are there any other questions?”

“Don’t die,” Derek orders.

Stiles smiles ruefully. “That might not be an option. But I’ll do my best.”

#

Stiles kneels in the center of the circle, exhaustion writ into the lines of his body.

Half of the rogue pack has fallen in the time that it has taken him to cast most of the spell. The circle holds him safe with Allison and Lydia, for now. His hands move slowly, making it seems as if the girls move with super speed, taking aim, firing, repeating while waiting for Stiles to finish.

Derek can’t cross the lines of the circle, not without breaking it, but he won’t leave Stiles either. He shouts to his wolves, directs them, but he stays back from the fight. Half his attention is on them, half on Stiles. 

He sees a rogue beta leap for Scott, and Isaac saves him before Derek can yell.

He can’t do this. He can’t keep his pack safe.

A groan yanks his attention back to Stiles to find him with his head bowed; Derek could swear he sees a faint glow around him. “Stiles,” he growls.

“Go fight, Derek.” The voice is low and drawn tight, pained. Stiles looks up at him with empty eyes.

“You need help.”

“We’ve got him.” Lydia lies as she drops her gun, the scent of the falsehood bitter in the air. “I’ll take care of him and Allison. You go help the wolves so they can’t get to us before we finish this.”

He hesitates, and Stiles glares, expression more alive than Derek has seen in days.

“Get out there, damn it!” Stiles pulls himself to his feet, using Lydia as an anchor. He stands with his arm wrapped around her, leaning against her for his balance. “I am not saving your ass just so you can sit on it and do nothing. Go help your pack and get rid of this thing!”

A howl of pain from Boyd, and Derek flinches.

“Go!” Stiles yells again, shooing him roughly.

Derek goes. There is no other choice right now; if they are to have any chance at all, he needs to be in the thick of things. He bites. He howls. He snarls. He rips and shreds and cracks with his claws.

He fights to save his pack, his home. He fights to save Stiles.

They all know when the spell is done, when Allison and Stiles are able to attack the creature. The sky lights as if it were mid-day, and the arrow that shoots shines like the sun. Her aim is true and it strikes between the eyes of the creature; it rears back in a wall of putrid flesh, sores glowing from the inside.

There is a moment’s pause before it explodes. Derek ducks, eyes closed, twisting away from it to protect himself.

There is a scream, and he starts to run, still blind, ears still ringing from the noise. He leaves his wolves to finish scaring off the rogue pack who are now nothing without their creature. He leaves them all behind to bound across the shattered circle and land beside the huddled heap that is Stiles.

“He collapsed,” Lydia says quietly.

“I see that.” Derek’s words are more growl. “Give me space, I’ll get him to the hospital.”

“Too late.” Stiles reaches up, twisting his hand weakly in the collar of Derek’s shirt. Derek goes with the slight tug, leaning down to press his lips to Stiles’s throat, put his ear by Stiles’s lips to hear his whispered words.

“It’s done,” he whispers. “You’ll be safe, we made sure of it. The circle… it’s sunk into the woods. It’s a part of it now, and with them gone, nothing else can come in.”

“I didn’t want you to do that.” Derek hates how shattered his voice sounds, how it cracks on the word _want_. Claws dig into the fabric of Stiles’s shirt and he pulls him up, holding on tight. “I told you to _stop_ doing magic. I told you _not to die_.”

“I didn’t listen.”

They both laugh at that, ragged and rough. Derek shifts so that he sits on the ground, Stiles cradled across his lap. He brushes lips against his forehead, feeling how cold he is when Stiles starts to shiver.

“It’s what we do,” Stiles murmurs. “We Stilinskis take care of our Hales. You’ll be safe now.”

But he wouldn’t be happy. He could never be _happy_ , not like this. “I didn’t care if I was safe.”

“I did.” The silence stretches on a slow hissed breath. “Magic has a price, Derek. I made peace with that long ago.”

“I didn’t.”

“This is my part in the pack. It’s what I had to do.”

It’s not what Derek wants. He is out of words, face pressed into the crook of Stiles’s shoulder, inhaling his scent as if he can never get enough of it. Breath shudders through a too weak body, then Stiles goes limp.

Derek growls when someone pulls the body from his grasp, snarls as they fight with him. He grabs for Stiles, refusing to let go, refusing to believe that’s it over.

In the end, they step away and let him be.

In the end, Derek howls. Alone.


End file.
